Surviving the Apocalypse
by Rai Dean Con
Summary: Lana and Brad are in the fight for their lives, the Apocalypse. Will they make it out alive with only the help of a few stray survivers as the world is overcome by demons?
1. Preface

May I first start of with the fact that this is the first story I have ever hoped for others to read. Please leave comments as well as constructive critisism if you find something I can improve on. I hope to get this story published. Also, take in the fact that I'm only 13.

Thanks, enjoy.

Surviving The Apocalypse

Rai Con

We all knew it was coming...

Seventeen-year-old Alana and fourteen-year-old Brad Reese find themselves mixed in with the end of the world. War rages around them, and they believe they might be the last ones. They are running low on supplies and the demons just keep coming. Accompanied by a few stray neighbors, and close friends, they enter the fight for their lives, but will they come out prosperous, or die trying?

Preface

Three Years Earlier:

Mom was sitting at the faded oak kitchen table reading the Sunday newspaper. Her long, smooth, milk chocolate hair was pulled back into a sloppy braid that ran down the back of her fuchsia bath robe she had gotten for her birthday in April. Her thin rimmed glasses drooped to edge of her nose, and threatened to fall off. Thin, wispy lines of gray were beginning to appear again in her mop of wavy brown hair. She needed to dye it again, desperately bad. Her hair had once been this color; the silky chocolate brown, but was now tainted with the grays that came with old age and stress. Her back was straight and erect, firmly pushed up against the back of the chair in which she sat. Her hands flipped through the pages of her newspaper. A cup of pipping hot coffee sat on the table just to her left. Steam billowed up from the espresso drink. Again, probably in her haste to read the article about Father that was supposed to be on the front page today, she had, yet another time, forgotten to use a coaster. There would surely be a coffee ring in grated into the table's already worn surface.

Careful not to frighten her, I rapped on the wall. Her eyes looked up from the paper, and she smiled at me. Her smile was weak, withered, cracked, tired. I could see that, behind her glasses, there was pain, and worry in her once beautiful green eyes. The creases on her forehead and her cheeks looked extremely deep, and full of sorrow. She looked ready to crack. At any moment she might burst out crying, screaming, or even laughing. Either way, it wouldn't be a pretty sight.

"Good morning, Alana." Mom said in a hushed voice.

I decided to try and avoid another conversation about "my feelings", that would eventually end with her spilling her guts out to me, and crying on _my_ shoulder.

I pranced quickly over to the cabinet, turning my back towards my mother. I got out a cereal box, choosing randomly, not really caring what variety my hand happened to grasp. Today looked like _Fruit Loops_, which was okay with me. I got down a bowl, and a spoon as well. Once I had poured my cereal, I retrieved the milk. With my back still to my mother, I paused. I heard someone stirring upstairs. It was Brad, my younger brother. I glanced at the clock. 10:00pm. _That must be a record for him,_ I thought, and plopped a bite into my mouth.

After the third bite of _Fruit Loops_, Brad's heavy, trudging feet began their journey down the twenty-three stairs on our luxurious winding staircase. After the fifth bite, Brad had made it down the stairs, and his feet plopped loudly onto the wooden floor of the foyer. Finally, after seven bites, Brad leisurely made his way into the kitchen, stopping in the doorway to wave at Mom.

Brad looked terrible. His eyes were blood shot from a lack of sleep, and his grayish eyelids drooped heavily from exhaustion. His face was as pale as the snow at the tips of the Rockies, and looking just as dangerous. He seemed as if one little thing could set him off. He was wearing his flannel, plaid, red and black PJ pants. A black shirt that said _Black Eyed Peas_ in white, bold lettering reeked of his colon. His hair, my God! It was twisted and distorted as if a small rodent had decided to take residence there. His brow furrowed as he saw me examining him.

Absentmindedly, I compared our hair color. His was dark brown, much darker than Mother's_, _but still much lighter than mine. Mine was midnight black, and glossy. I got it from my father. Supposedly.

"What are you looking at Lana?" Brad questioned angrily, hatred singeing his tone.

I turned swiftly away. Brad was angry. He had a right to be. A lot of things had happened lately, and none of them happy. My father, CEO of _Herrick Agencies, _had just divorced my mother. Despite our constant efforts to prove that our mother was incapable of taking care of herself more or less two children, the judge assigned my mother as our legal guardian. The judge had said that "it would be bad for business", and, "it won't look to good on your Father's reputation". Yeah. That will make you a little mad. Finding out that your father won't take you in because it puts a downer on his rep? Does "two children" look bad on your application nowadays?

That wasn't the only thing either. After Father left Mom, Mom became a little... weird. She started being obsessed with Father. Finding out anything she could about where he was, what he was doing, who he was with. It was getting out of hand. We tried to convince her to see a specialist, but she'd refuse. That's when she started pouring her heart out to me. It went downhill from there.

It's been three months now, that we've had to put up with Mom's chaotic mental situation, and it was wearing us down. Brad especially. He had taken a lot harder hit, considering he's only eleven. I'm fourteen, and it is still tough on me. I've been taking care of Brad for a while now, since Mom, well, can't. I've also taken on the job of supplying income to the family, and cleaning, cooking, bills, and everything else my _Mom _should be doing.

Brad trudged across the kitchen, grabbed a package of _Poptarts _off the counter, and stormed back out of the kitchen. I sighed, and rested my head on one of the kitchen cabinets. A groan escaped my lips, and I tried to choke it down. Mom got up, leaving her newspaper and coffee on the table, and went outside to meditate in the dew covered grass of the early morning. I ate the rest of my cereal in silence.


	2. Chapter 1

One

Present Time:

"Lana!" Brad called over a loud banging sound. "Wake up! We're under attack again!" He yelped helplessly. His voice quavering.

Noise bustled all around me. I suddenly remembered where I was. My eyes fluttered open quickly. I was staring at the top of our make-shift tent stitched from old clothes. There was a large rip in one pair of jeans, and a gigantic hole where I guessed a shirt used to hang. The next thing I noticed was the noise. Loud, continuous banging. _Artillery guns, _I thought. A shrill hissing noise screamed across the dark, star-lit sky close by. It was louder than the machine guns. It was a demon dying. One of the same demons we'd been fighting for the past two and a half years. Since the apocalypse began.

I struggled to sit up. My left arm was still in a sling, but it felt good, rested. I searched around for Brad. After a second of my eyes adjusting to the surprisingly bright area around me, I saw him fighting off one of the demons with fire poker he'd doused in holy water. This demon had the head of a deranged, decaying boar. It's skin was molded and flaky. It's tongue hung lazily out of it's mouth, and flies circled round.

In a split second, I was on my feet. I nearly fell back from dizziness. My head rushed, twisted, twirled, and did loops as I tried to regain my balance. I now realized why it was so bright out.

"Our tent!" I yelled, but my voice was muffled by the quarrel, and artillery guns. I couldn't even hear myself. I only felt the words on my lips.

I gazed in terror at the singeing remains of our tent. It seemed everything was a-blaze around me. Fires burned high in loops like giant _Cheerios._ I turned just in time to come face-to-face with a demon. It had the head of a black crocodile. It's eyes glowed bright orange in the fire. They were filled with a frightening confidence. They were filled, with evil.

I reached blindly for a weapon. Anything metal, sharp, anything that could kill this horrid beast who dared breath my air. What did I produce? A scrap of

wood. It was partially burnt, and very brittle. I knew it would only anger the demon, but if I didn't want to be demon chow, I had to do something. I chucked it at the demons long, ferocious crocodile snout, and bolted toward the sound of Brad screaming.

I didn't get far before I heard the demon coming after me. I grabbed a metal spike out of the ground. It, like everything else here, was soaking wet with holy water. I turned to face the demon again. It hissed, keeping it's eyes on the spike I guessed used to be part of a once glorious, now rusted railroad track. The demon made a grunting sound, and backed away, it's eyes not leaving the spike.

After the demon had fled, I whirled around, and sprinted again towards Brad. I was closing in. Thirty yards, twenty, fifteen, ten... Suddenly I was spiraling upwards in the sky by the grip of gnarled hands that belonged to the crocodile faced demon. I shook, and screamed, and thrashed about, but the demon only climbed higher. _What is it planning to do?_ I thought. I soon got my answer.

Once we were around forty yards above the soft brown dirt, the demon's grip began to loosen. Soon, it let go, leaving me plummeting towards my death. As I fell, I did not see my life flash before my eyes. But in a way, I _did _see my life. I saw Brad, my brother, fighting a demon with a lion's head.

Then I heard the excruciating crunch of my bones beneath me as I slammed into the hard earth. I sucked what I believed to be my last breath, and everything went black.


	3. Chapter 2

Surviving The Apocalypse

Rai Con

Surviving The Apocalypse

Rai Con

We all knew it was coming...

Seventeen-year-old Alana and fourteen-year-old Brad Reese find themselves mixed in with the end of the world. War rages around them, and they believe they might be the last ones. They are running low on supplies and the demons just keep coming. Accompanied by a few stray neighbors, and close friends, they enter the fight for their lives, but will they come out prosperous, or die trying?

Preface

Three Years Earlier:

Mom was sitting at the faded oak kitchen table reading the Sunday newspaper. Her long, smooth, milk chocolate hair was pulled back into a sloppy braid that ran down the back of her fuchsia bath robe she had gotten for her birthday in April. Her thin rimmed glasses drooped to edge of her nose, and threatened to fall off. Thin, wispy lines of gray were beginning to appear again in her mop of wavy brown hair. She needed to dye it again, desperately bad. Her hair had once been this color; the silky chocolate brown, but was now tainted with the grays that came with old age and stress. Her back was straight and erect, firmly pushed up against the back of the chair in which she sat. Her hands flipped through the pages of her newspaper. A cup of pipping hot coffee sat on the table just to her left. Steam billowed up from the espresso drink. Again, probably in her haste to read the article about Father that was supposed to be on the front page today, she had, yet another time, forgotten to use a coaster. There would surely be a coffee ring in grated into the table's already worn surface.

Careful not to frighten her, I rapped on the wall. Her eyes looked up from the paper, and she smiled at me. Her smile was weak, withered, cracked, tired. I could see that, behind her glasses, there was pain, and worry in her once beautiful green eyes. The creases on her forehead and her cheeks looked extremely deep, and full of sorrow. She looked ready to crack. At any moment she might burst out crying, screaming, or even laughing. Either way, it wouldn't be a pretty sight.

"Good morning, Alana." Mom said in a hushed voice.

I decided to try and avoid another conversation about "my feelings", that would eventually end with her spilling her guts out to me, and crying on _my_ shoulder.

I pranced quickly over to the cabinet, turning my back towards my mother. I got out a cereal box, choosing randomly, not really caring what variety my hand happened to grasp. Today looked like _Fruit Loops_, which was okay with me. I got down a bowl, and a spoon as well. Once I had poured my cereal, I retrieved the milk. With my back still to my mother, I paused. I heard someone stirring upstairs. It was Brad, my younger brother. I glanced at the clock. 10:00pm. _That must be a record for him,_ I thought, and plopped a bite into my mouth.

After the third bite of _Fruit Loops_, Brad's heavy, trudging feet began their journey down the twenty-three stairs on our luxurious winding staircase. After the fifth bite, Brad had made it down the stairs, and his feet plopped loudly onto the wooden floor of the foyer. Finally, after seven bites, Brad leisurely made his way into the kitchen, stopping in the doorway to wave at Mom.

Brad looked terrible. His eyes were blood shot from a lack of sleep, and his grayish eyelids drooped heavily from exhaustion. His face was as pale as the snow at the tips of the Rockies, and looking just as dangerous. He seemed as if one little thing could set him off. He was wearing his flannel, plaid, red and black PJ pants. A black shirt that said _Black Eyed Peas_ in white, bold lettering reeked of his colon. His hair, my God! It was twisted and distorted as if a small rodent had decided to take residence there. His brow furrowed as he saw me examining him.

Absentmindedly, I compared our hair color. His was dark brown, much darker than Mother's_, _but still much lighter than mine. Mine was midnight black, and glossy. I got it from my father. Supposedly.

"What are you looking at Lana?" Brad questioned angrily, hatred singeing his tone.

I turned swiftly away. Brad was angry. He had a right to be. A lot of things had happened lately, and none of them happy. My father, CEO of _Herrick Agencies, _had just divorced my mother. Despite our constant efforts to prove that our mother was incapable of taking care of herself more or less two children, the judge assigned my mother as our legal guardian. The judge had said that "it would be bad for business", and, "it won't look to good on your Father's reputation". Yeah. That will make you a little mad. Finding out that your father won't take you in because it puts a downer on his rep? Does "two children" look bad on your application nowadays?

That wasn't the only thing either. After Father left Mom, Mom became a little... weird. She started being obsessed with Father. Finding out anything she could about where he was, what he was doing, who he was with. It was getting out of hand. We tried to convince her to see a specialist, but she'd refuse. That's when she started pouring her heart out to me. It went downhill from there.

It's been three months now, that we've had to put up with Mom's chaotic mental situation, and it was wearing us down. Brad especially. He had taken a lot harder hit, considering he's only eleven. I'm fourteen, and it is still tough on me. I've been taking care of Brad for a while now, since Mom, well, can't. I've also taken on the job of supplying income to the family, and cleaning, cooking, bills, and everything else my _Mom _should be doing.

Brad trudged across the kitchen, grabbed a package of _Poptarts _off the counter, and stormed back out of the kitchen. I sighed, and rested my head on one of the kitchen cabinets. A groan escaped my lips, and I tried to choke it down. Mom got up, leaving her newspaper and coffee on the table, and went outside to meditate in the dew covered grass of the early morning. I ate the rest of my cereal in silence.

One

Present Time:

"Lana!" Brad called over a loud banging sound. "Wake up! We're under attack again!" He yelped helplessly. His voice quavering.

Noise bustled all around me. I suddenly remembered where I was. My eyes fluttered open quickly. I was staring at the top of our make-shift tent stitched from old clothes. There was a large rip in one pair of jeans, and a gigantic hole where I guessed a shirt used to hang. The next thing I noticed was the noise. Loud, continuous banging. _Artillery guns, _I thought. A shrill hissing noise screamed across the dark, star-lit sky close by. It was louder than the machine guns. It was a demon dying. One of the same demons we'd been fighting for the past two and a half years. Since the apocalypse began.

I struggled to sit up. My left arm was still in a sling, but it felt good, rested. I searched around for Brad. After a second of my eyes adjusting to the surprisingly bright area around me, I saw him fighting off one of the demons with fire poker he'd doused in holy water. This demon had the head of a deranged, decaying boar. It's skin was molded and flaky. It's tongue hung lazily out of it's mouth, and flies circled round.

In a split second, I was on my feet. I nearly fell back from dizziness. My head rushed, twisted, twirled, and did loops as I tried to regain my balance. I now realized why it was so bright out.

"Our tent!" I yelled, but my voice was muffled by the quarrel, and artillery guns. I couldn't even hear myself. I only felt the words on my lips.

I gazed in terror at the singeing remains of our tent. It seemed everything was a-blaze around me. Fires burned high in loops like giant _Cheerios._ I turned just in time to come face-to-face with a demon. It had the head of a black crocodile. It's eyes glowed bright orange in the fire. They were filled with a frightening confidence. They were filled, with evil.

I reached blindly for a weapon. Anything metal, sharp, anything that could kill this horrid beast who dared breath my air. What did I produce? A scrap of

wood. It was partially burnt, and very brittle. I knew it would only anger the demon, but if I didn't want to be demon chow, I had to do something. I chucked it at the demons long, ferocious crocodile snout, and bolted toward the sound of Brad screaming.

I didn't get far before I heard the demon coming after me. I grabbed a metal spike out of the ground. It, like everything else here, was soaking wet with holy water. I turned to face the demon again. It hissed, keeping it's eyes on the spike I guessed used to be part of a once glorious, now rusted railroad track. The demon made a grunting sound, and backed away, it's eyes not leaving the spike.

After the demon had fled, I whirled around, and sprinted again towards Brad. I was closing in. Thirty yards, twenty, fifteen, ten... Suddenly I was spiraling upwards in the sky by the grip of gnarled hands that belonged to the crocodile faced demon. I shook, and screamed, and thrashed about, but the demon only climbed higher. _What is it planning to do?_ I thought. I soon got my answer.

Once we were around forty yards above the soft brown dirt, the demon's grip began to loosen. Soon, it let go, leaving me plummeting towards my death. As I fell, I did not see my life flash before my eyes. But in a way, I _did _see my life. I saw Brad, my brother, fighting a demon with a lion's head.

Then I heard the excruciating crunch of my bones beneath me as I slammed into the hard earth. I sucked what I believed to be my last breath, and everything went black.

Two

Five Years Earlier:

I was outside. It was a cool, early spring day. Mid April. Brad was sitting on the round rubber tire that was tied to a tree branch by a thick yellow robe we called "Tarzan's swing". He was hollering for me to come push him. I was trying to talk to my friend Claire on the phone. After the third time of him begging, I surrendered to Brad and told Claire that I would call her tomorrow.

"Yef! Pufh me fiffy! Pufh me!" Nine-year-old Brad chanted over and over.

I sat the phone down on the back patio steps, and jogged quickly over to the swing. Brad gripped the thick yellow rope, and continued his long chant. I couldn't help but smile. I loved my little brother. He was so adorable at times. He was missing his two front teeth, and couldn't pronounce an 's' correctly to save his life. I laughed.

I lightly pushed the rubber tire, and got it swinging at a slow, steady pace. Little Brad laughed.

"Filly girl! Higher fiffy! Higher!" Brad chanted.

I obeyed the adorable little nine-year-old, and pushed him higher and faster. All the time, Brad was laughing his little head off. The sun was shining on us, and made the fresh green leaves on the oak tree glimmer. Brad looked like he was glowing. His round cheeks seemed kissed by an angel. His dark brown hair was almost five inches long and needed cut badly. It swayed back and forth as the swing swung higher and higher.

Suddenly, Brad started coughing. I stopped the swing abruptly, and he was flung out into the lawn. I raced over to him as fast as I could, and he was lying in the grass clutching his throat, still coughing.

"Brad! Oh. My. God! Are you alright?" I asked frantically searching him for cuts or bruises.

Brad laughed, and then stuck his tongue out and pretended to be dead. I decided to play along. I hunched down and pretended to weep. After a moment I saw him sit up out of the corner of my eye. He patted my shoulder.

"Oh Brad! Why? Why?" I fake-sobbed some more.

He lifted my chin, and smiled. "It okay fiffy. I was only pretending to be dead." He laughed.

"Oh. Oh, were you?" I tried to act surprised. "You are a pretty great pretender than. I thought you were actually dead!"

"Nope! Ha ha! I fooled you!" He laughed, and I laughed too. How could I not?

Three

Present Time:

I heard mumbling around me. Soft words that were incomprehensible to my ears. I thought that they were the voices of angels. That I had died, a crumbled heap of flesh, blood, and bones in the bare sand of the Grand Canyon, and these angels had carried me here, to heaven. But the voices were gruff, musky, cold. For a terrifying moment, I thought the devil had seized my helpless soul as I lay on the cold ground in the late Arizona summer night. The devil's crude hand had gripped onto my soul ,and tore me from what I deserved, heaven. That these voices belonged to demons. Then again, with all that I'd sinned in the past 3 years, maybe this was the fate that I deserved. A life of torture behind the fiery, cruel gates of hell.

I lie on the ground, unable to move, in absolute agony. Everything felt as if it had been set a-blaze, and dowsed with gasoline and motor oil. It felt as if every bone in my once strong, now fragile body had been cracked, bent, and broken so that only shards and splinters remain of what once was my skeleton. My skull, containing my well programmed, but horribly jostled brain with thoughts bustling about, and banging loudly against the soupy walls of my mind, desperately searching for a way out, was throbbing with an excruciating pain. Even to shift the weight of my tongue in my mouth took extreme effort.

I wanted to scream, but could not make a sound. I was well used to pain by now, but this, was unbearable. I couldn't take it. My heart thumped unevenly inside my damaged chest. With every thick _ba-boom _of my aching heart, my insides were pained even further.

Gradually, I began to make-out words from the hoarse conversation that rumbled about me. I began to identify separate tones, and after a moment, even different voices. I could hear many, many people talking, but their voices sounded distant, and I could not make out words. The voices I _could _understand were much closer, perhaps a few feet away.

"...telling you, Brad, she's gonna be fin- Brad! She's waking up! Listen to her

breathing! She's awake!" A familiar voice exclaimed, but I could not comprehend who the voice belonged to.

Brad...Brad...Where have I heard that- Brad! Oh my god! Brad, my brother! Then he must have- No! It can't be! Brad can't be dead, more or less in Hell. I must not be in Hell then. Could I possibly be alive? My "last few moments", for I now doubted weather if they were worthy of that title, were blurry, fuzzy patches of vague memories of falling.

"Alana! Alana, can you hear me? It's Brad. Please wake up! Say something!" A very anxious Brad exclaimed.

I still could not see, smell, or talk. I tried to call out his name, but my lips would not form the words, and my lungs refused to produce the sound needed. I mustered all my strength, and with a final effort, grunted. It was a shallow, sheepish grunt. But, it was enough.

"Lana!" Brad cried joyfully.

He wrapped his arms around me, and I felt hot tears stream onto my arm, and puddle up in the crevice of my elbow. It took only a moment to realize that they were not only Brad's tears, but my own as well. Unable to keep myself awake any further, I slipped back into unconsciousness, knowing I was safe, for now.

Four

Fourteen Years Earlier:


	4. Chapter 3

Three

Present Time:

I heard mumbling around me. Soft words that were incomprehensible to my ears. I thought that they were the voices of angels. That I had died, a crumbled heap of flesh, blood, and bones in the bare sand of the Grand Canyon, and these angels had carried me here, to heaven. But the voices were gruff, musky, cold. For a terrifying moment, I thought the devil had seized my helpless soul as I lay on the cold ground in the late Arizona summer night. The devil's crude hand had gripped onto my soul ,and tore me from what I deserved, heaven. That these voices belonged to demons. Then again, with all that I'd sinned in the past 3 years, maybe this was the fate that I deserved. A life of torture behind the fiery, cruel gates of hell.

I lie on the ground, unable to move, in absolute agony. Everything felt as if it had been set a-blaze, and dowsed with gasoline and motor oil. It felt as if every bone in my once strong, now fragile body had been cracked, bent, and broken so that only shards and splinters remain of what once was my skeleton. My skull, containing my well programmed, but horribly jostled brain with thoughts bustling about, and banging loudly against the soupy walls of my mind, desperately searching for a way out, was throbbing with an excruciating pain. Even to shift the weight of my tongue in my mouth took extreme effort.

I wanted to scream, but could not make a sound. I was well used to pain by now, but this, was unbearable. I couldn't take it. My heart thumped unevenly inside my damaged chest. With every thick _ba-boom _of my aching heart, my insides were pained even further.

Gradually, I began to make-out words from the hoarse conversation that rumbled about me. I began to identify separate tones, and after a moment, even different voices. I could hear many, many people talking, but their voices sounded distant, and I could not make out words. The voices I _could _understand were much closer, perhaps a few feet away.

"...telling you, Brad, she's gonna be fin- Brad! She's waking up! Listen to her

breathing! She's awake!" A familiar voice exclaimed, but I could not comprehend who the voice belonged to.

Brad...Brad...Where have I heard that- Brad! Oh my god! Brad, my brother! Then he must have- No! It can't be! Brad can't be dead, more or less in Hell. I must not be in Hell then. Could I possibly be alive? My "last few moments", for I now doubted weather if they were worthy of that title, were blurry, fuzzy patches of vague memories of falling.

"Alana! Alana, can you hear me? It's Brad. Please wake up! Say something!" A very anxious Brad exclaimed.

I still could not see, smell, or talk. I tried to call out his name, but my lips would not form the words, and my lungs refused to produce the sound needed. I mustered all my strength, and with a final effort, grunted. It was a shallow, sheepish grunt. But, it was enough.

"Lana!" Brad cried joyfully.

He wrapped his arms around me, and I felt hot tears stream onto my arm, and puddle up in the crevice of my elbow. It took only a moment to realize that they were not only Brad's tears, but my own as well. Unable to keep myself awake any further, I slipped back into unconsciousness, knowing I was safe, for now.


End file.
